


Free Fall

by eaglesflying



Category: Scorpion (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s02e24 Toby Or Not Toby, F/M, Kind of dark, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:44:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7488480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eaglesflying/pseuds/eaglesflying
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The very first thing Toby learned during his Harvard years was that understanding how the human psyche works doesn't mean that you are invincible to psychological traumas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Since the scorpion-binge-session last week I'm officially obsessed. And ta--da-- here is the result.  
> The fic is sadly not in the fluffy light tone which most of the Quintis-fanfics have. And yep, it is another attempt at trying to solve/resolve the big damn cliffhanger of 2x24 (like we don't have enough of those).  
> And I should say, this fic is also a big load of “first times” for me:  
> First time writing a pairing involving a boy and a girl (I'm patting myself on the back here). First time posting anything only in English which is not my first language. First time trying some ideas without a solid storyline (Not good).  
> Anyway, hope u enjoy it. :)

The very first thing Toby learned during his Harvard years was that understanding how the human psyche works doesn't mean that you are invincible to psychological traumas. Just like being an orthopedic surgeon doesn't prevent you from breaking an ankle when you fall down three flight of stairs. 

When he was 10, Toby learned from a 600 page medical book in the local library that Bipolar I Disorder means transition from depressiv episodes to hypomanic stages that eventually leads to full mania. Cold hard facts summoned up in twenty three lines of words on a thin piece of paper. Twenty three lines of words which he instantly memorized in his mind. 

When he got home that night, his mom was standing on the front porch with a broken piece of porcelain in her bloody hand with only one shoe on, his dad sitting on the ground in front of the garage door, face covered in shadows and everything was so dead, so silent. It was those words that first came to his mind, fresh on his tongue along with the smell of old books and dusts on the shelves. Yet it didn't make it better. It just made him realize how fragile the human mind is, how out of control and ridiculously powerless people are, like puppet on strings, every move already planed out by the universe. The only thing that did make it a little bit better was what’s left of the tea cup in his mother’s hand. Green and yellow flowers now tainted with red. Toby hated that china set. 

Post-traumatic stress disorder, oh he understands it alright. But none of the 183 articles on this topic which he’ve read during school years really answered one crucial question, it was not until much later, when he was working his way through Johns Hopkins that he realized what the word “trauma” actually means. 

For a 22-year-old Seal who came out of three wars alive it meant not dying when everyone else on his team was blown up by an IED. For a guy who lost his right arm in a truck accident it meant never being able to hold his baby girl ever again. Or in other cases, for someone like Sly, for example, it could mean a public toilet seat or a bumpy 13-hour flight. And for Toby –– well, a trauma for Toby had been being knocked out and kidnapped, being tied to a chair and threatened out of his socks by a maniac, right until thirty minutes ago. Until everything exploded in his face and gravity pulled his heart down and down and down. Until “no” and “can’t” and “married” and half bottle of tequila plus a third-grade concussion. And now it's time to bleed, not literally, yet still a physiological reaction. Like guinea pig in a one-way labyrinth, no choice but follow the route pre-determined by somebody else. Flashbacks, outburst of emotions, mental instability. One, two, three, words on a thin piece of paper. Understanding it doesn't make it better. 

Liquid burned all the way down his throat when the thought hit home, when voices and faces and words all clicked together like a Rubik's cube. And suddenly he was laughing, laughing and coughing and spitting until his eyes watered and the world went dark for a minute. Somebody touched his right shoulder and Toby flinched, hard. The hand retreated, after a pause, Sly sat down beside him, the sofa dipped a little bit.

“It was him, wasn’t it.” It was hardly a question and Sly’s silence answered it perfectly.

I know her longer than you, Colins said. A hint, a clue, yet the gift was still perfectly wrapped up, and the bastard wouldn't want to ruin it before Happy was forced to say the words herself. Yet she left a huge part out.

“I…I really don’t know how he did it. The record is perfect, legal, nothing suggests forgery, and the digital footprint traced back to six years ago. Before, um, before you and I even joined the team.” Sly was sweating, he rubbed his hands on his knees. Toby wanted to tell him to breath, but he seemed to forget how himself.

“Toby, I, I don’t…Happy is married to Collins. I don't understand…”

Hearing the words was like free fall, blood rushed through his veins making him blind and deaf, but at the same time everything’s too bright and too loud. It was like going back to that chair again. He’s still owned by the devil and he doesn't know if he’ll ever get out again.


End file.
